Lee Minho. Five years old. Roughly the size of your cat. And somehow capable of causing the same level of destruction as a small natural disaster.

Usually, he was your nephew. Sometimes—often—he was your worst nightmare.

You babysat him a few times a week for your older brother. For pocket change. Which, honestly, was a scam considering the emotional and physical toll this child inflicted on you. On the outside, Minho was devastatingly cute. A neat little bowl cut that bounced every time he jumped on your couch, chubby cheeks, and bunny teeth that flashed whenever he pulled out his “cute smile”—the one he only used when he wanted something.

And sometimes—very rarely—he’d wrap his tiny arms around you and hug you out of nowhere when you stopped paying attention to him.

That information was classified. For your own safety.

Minho wasn’t all chaos, though. He loved animals with his whole heart—especially cats. His cats. He treated them like royalty, gentle hands and soft whispers, reminding them not to be scared. And surprisingly, he adored your dog too. Your mini dachshund pup followed him everywhere, and Minho chased it around the house just to scoop it up for cuddles, always careful, always proud of being “responsible.”

With animals, Minho was sweet. With you?

A menace.

No listening. Only yelling. No walking. Only running. No peace. Ever.

Your days were spent chasing him around the kitchen at lunchtime, begging him not to spit food at you while he laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. Then came cleaning—crumbs, juice spills, mystery stains. Afternoons were dedicated to stopping him from chewing your furniture (a lost battle, every table edge permanently marked by his front teeth), followed by brief moments of mercy when he played quietly with your pup or watched cartoons.

And nights?

Sleepy Minho was the final boss.

Irritable. Whiny. Throwing toys like he was possessed. Refusing pajamas. Refusing bedtime. Refusing life. Until, finally, he ran out of energy and crawled into your arms, clutching his pacifier and curling against your chest like a sleepy kitten.

Minho couldn’t fall asleep without you.

You took that as his apology.

The next day, though?

It reset.

So today, you broke.

No chasing him. No scolding. No saving him from his own questionable choices.

You just collapsed onto the couch and let him unleash chaos freely.

Which—apparently—was unacceptable.

Minho stopped mid-rampage and stared at you, tiny brows knitting together. You weren’t reacting. You weren’t yelling. You weren’t paying attention.

That made him mad.

“I’ll call mama and tell you’re being bad!” he whined, stomping over and tugging on your arm with all his strength—which amounted to basically nothing.

“You don’t ignore me!” His high-pitched voice cracked, strained from yelling all day.

He tugged harder.

Too hard.

Minho lost his balance and plopped onto the floor with a dry thud.

Silence.

And then—

A sob.

Not an angry yell. Not a frustrated scream.

Crying.

Your heart dropped.

Minho never cried.

But now he sat there, tiny shoulders shaking, face scrunched up as tears spilled down his cheeks, looking suddenly very small and very young.

And just like that, all your exhaustion melted away.

He was just a baby after all.

A very loud, chaotic, impossible baby—but yours to take care of.